


with my hands pressed to your skin

by IAmNotLost



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, I'M NOT SURE it got mixed feelings, M/M, PWP, i did the thing, it just has feelings i think ok, porn with feelings?, sort of angsty too though tbh?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotLost/pseuds/IAmNotLost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are Stiles’ favorite mornings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with my hands pressed to your skin

**Author's Note:**

> I do things mostly on tumblr? http://tinyfics.tumblr.com/  
> I like friends  
> friend is nice

It’s ridiculously, ridiculously good.

Stiles likes being fucked on his back, okay? (Let it be known that he likes just about any position, fucker or fuckee, but that’s besides the point.)

He likes it when Derek hooks both of Stiles’ legs over his arms, where he can brush the soft skin of his calves over the almost vulnerable skin of Derek’s shoulders. Likes the way it’s so _heady,_ because Derek’s bracketing him in, surrounding him until he can’t see anything but wisps of dark hair and light eyes.

It’s fucking teasing, is what it is, with his legs trapped between them. Derek’s pressed down and keeping eye contact, and it’s got to be the hottest thing he’s ever seen, watching Derek’s face as he rolls his hips into him. The way his lower lip trembles slightly every time Stiles moans, almost as if he can barely hold himself back. Almost as if he’s trying to find a _reason_ to hold back. 

(Stiles likes pushing Derek’s buttons. A lot. Until there are no reasons left. And if Stiles has bruises on his wrists and hips, well? Worth it. He likes them, anyway.)

His favorite, though, is when Derek presses down just a fraction further, and they’d be chest to chest if it wasn’t for Stiles’ _fucking_ legs. Derek does it on purpose, too. Presses down just a little bit more until they’re sharing air, and Stiles has to close his eyes because it’s intimate in a way he doesn’t know if he’s ready to admit, yet.

Because it’s there, has been there for a while, but it’s _terrifying._ It’s terrifying, and Stiles is trying to focus on the sex right now, thank you very much.

Derek breathes words onto Stiles’ lips that he just can’t make out, and they’re not kissing, but the slow drag of their mouths is almost painful, because every time Stiles tries to kiss him, Derek pulls that tiny bit farther.

"You’re a—a fucking _asshole."_ Stiles gets out, and he loses his breath (and train of thought) halfway through his sentence, because Derek rolls his body extra slow, extra hard, and Stiles is certain he sees stars for a good thirty seconds.

And then Derek’s nosing at Stiles’ cheek, lips pressing so softly against his jaw that Stiles aches with it, shivers traveling down his spine to sit low in his body.

They talk during sex, sometimes; little witty quips and easy banter between gasps and colorful swears. Sometimes it’s easy and playful and just something to _do,_ just another thing to do with each other. And that’s not a bad thing—it’s fun and fast and undemanding. They have sex just to have sex.

But sometimes it’s quiet except for the moans and breathless noises. Sometimes it’s _more._ Sometimes it’s Derek petting a hand up the backs of Stiles’ thighs, soft and careful. Sometimes it’s Stiles prepping Derek tortuously slow, because watching _Derek_ come undone is beautiful.

And sometimes it’s like this, a mix of easy and more, because their hips have found a rhythm so good Stiles is going to feel it for the next few days, is going to come hard enough for his vision to blur. It’s unhurried, but there’s something animal about the way they cling to each other, finding solace in skin and sweat and bones.

"Derek, come on, I— _please._ " He can’t help but begging by this point, strung out and pleading with eyes too raw, too honest. Derek looks back, vulnerable and almost a little lost, like he doesn’t know how he got here, how he got _this._

With shaky fingers, Stiles grabs Derek’s face and pulls him down those few extra inches until they’re kissing, open mouths breathing harshly against each other until Stiles is _keening,_ and Derek just inhales, greedy, greedy, greedy—

As if he could keep that sound safe and hidden in the parts of himself that managed to stay clean, after everything else was burnt. 

 

 

The come-down from sex like this is always gentle.

Sometimes Stiles swats Derek on the ass and Derek bites at Stiles’ earlobe, and they’re laughing and rolling out of bed to clean up.

This, though. This is harsh panting against lips turned into slow kisses, Stiles licking into Derek’s mouth so softly that he feels Derek shudder with it, as if he doesn’t know how to handle the tenderness.

It makes something fierce ache in Stiles’ chest, so he lazily cleans them off with discarded sheets, puts up with the wet spot, and curls into Derek’s body. Clean up can wait.

Derek traces spirals into his skin that Stiles wants to ask about, because there’s three and it feels like a triskele, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

He does press a kiss to Derek’s shoulder, though, before baring his neck and falling asleep.

 

 

They wake up in a mess up naked limbs and sore muscles, and Stiles’ ass is resting over a grossly dried up wet spot, and the bubble of quiet aching they’ve gotten into pops because Stiles farts. 

Derek laughs hard enough that Stiles joins in (because it’s so fucking beautiful to see Derek laugh, he can’t _help_ it), and they’re two idiots scrambling off each other and out of bed because they have to _pee,_ and there’s one bathroom in the bedroom and neither want to go into the hallway.

These are Stiles’ favorite mornings.


End file.
